Crystallise Another Life
by ArthurianDream
Summary: One wish for his mother's life and the whisperings of destiny could change Arthur's views on magic as he is transported to another version of his life. Royal!Bamf!Merlin Set at the end of season three: AUish. (:
1. Prologue: Destiny Speaks

Sun beams shone in patches through the canopy of tree leaves, gracing the morning dew adorning the grass below with beams of light. The horse he was riding maintained a rhythmic pace; he focused more on that, and the rich greens and browns of the forest, than what the man clad in royal reds riding in front of him was saying. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back whilst a gust of wind caressed his hair and clothes. He let his eyes flutter open to reveal deep cerulean eyes, studying a flock of birds flying through the dawn sky and the sun painting the colours of a new day. Fallen twigs and leaves crunched beneath him as he trotted along listening to bird song; it was a pleasant enough day, except—

"_Mer_lin, do you ever _listen?" _Arthur's voice erupted beside him making him jump out of his reverie, and he couldn't help shooting a cheeky smile at Arthur's back, even though the older man couldn't see it as Merlin was trailing behind the royal prince. Arthur was in a remarkably good mood—they were doing a hobby of the prince's, of course, but he, himself, didn't want to partake in this, ah, '_hobby._'

"Sorry, Sir _Prat, _I couldn't find it in me to listen to your pratty self prattling on," Merlin weakly bantered, as the servant—oddly—wasn't in the mood to talk, only to listen. Humourously enough—_listen_, not to the Prince Regent, but to the birdsong and the buzzing bees, the water rushing in the streams and the wind whistling through the trees.

The sun was shining, the breeze was wonderful, the sky was now coloured in vibrant blues as the sun had risen during the long trot to the borders of Camelot and Essetir. A beautiful day—apart from when Arthur's 'game' ran fearfully away from him as Merlin always seemed to make far too much noise, alerting the animals—they were _hunting_. Merlin hid a scowl; he _hated _hunting. The lanky servant knew that this border patrol had been an easy excuse for the prince to take out his frustrations on tiny woodland animals.

The prince had been more and more stressed, what with his father's health declining. The King had never been known to stay in bed with a simple sickness before; Arthur wasn't _that _oblivious, he had seen through Gaius' attempts to downplay how serious the King's sickness was. Merlin smiled despite the gravity of the kingdom's situation and wiggled his fingers, feeling the magic flow through them—correction, Arthur was _quite _oblivious.

Merlin ignored Arthur's loud, exasperated sigh in favour of absent-mindedly running his fingers through his horse's coarse mane. Arthur spoke again, with an irritated tone, "I had said, stop the horses here, _Mer_lin, we continue on foot. Get my crossbow—" Merlin ran a hand over his face as the royal prat continued his spiel, "—and my bow and arrow, the game bag, skinning knives…" he droned on, listing more things Merlin would have to take off the horse's saddle bag and pile onto his back.

"Yes, your _majesty." _Merlin sneered at Arthur, cutting him off whilst hopping off of his horse quickly, albeit not gracefully.

"Oi, you're in a right tizzy. Why is that?" Arthur questioned, his brow raised at the unusually bitter manservant. Merlin sighed irritably, considering whether he should just ignore the question and grab Arthur's hunting equipment or answer him. Azure eyes flickered to expectant pale blue ones, "_Well?" _Merlin almost chuckled at Arthur's tone. The blonde had never been one for sharing feelings, but had always been one for getting what he wanted: in this case, it had to do with Merlin—and, apparently, sharing feelings.

Merlin shrugged, and opted to continue packing the sack full of hunting supplies as he began to speak. "You know," he paused, shoving the crossbow into the bag with out any sense of care for the weapon—at which Arthur winced. "You're not the only one I run around for, yeah? I'm Gaius' ward, and he _does _expect me to work for him to make up for living with him, even if I _am _his nephew."

Arthur masked his surprise at Merlin's statement. _Gaius was his uncle? I had known that Gaius was like a father figure to Merlin, but I had never thought… interesting. I suppose it would be obvious to have moved into a new city with a family member rather than a stranger with out any blood ties at all. _Arthur then noticed Merlin had stopped speaking again; as most of the arrows had fallen out of the quiver, and the lanky manservant was awkwardly cradling the quiver, trying to not let the remaining arrows spill out as well whilst stooping down to collect the separate projectiles upon the forest floor.

Arthur almost laughed at his manservant's normal clumsiness, but Merlin deliberately interrupted his urge, "_And, _I was out most of the night picking moonglow and greenwarish, the _first_ of which can only be harvested in the moonlight, else it won't have the correct healing properties, as it is, as Gaius constantly reminds me, 'imperative that you get the herbs at the correct—'"

"_Mer_lin," Arthur cut the gangly boy's babbling rant in half, "If you're going to shirk your work because you didn't get a little sleep, then maybe you should stop complaining altogether. Stop acting like such a _girl_, Merlin," Arthur taunted, giving a wolfish smile towards his manservant.

"_You're _the one who asked, I didn't realise you would feel the sudden need to regress into pratification," Merlin mumbled, having successfully placed all the arrows into the quiver and quiver onto his back along with the various other hunting supplies Arthur had asked him to bring. Arthur indignantly mouthed the last few words Merlin had uttered, all the while wondering what that meant and what had gotten his manservant in a bitter mood.

Merlin continued mumbling things under his breath—about stupid and oblivious royal dollop heads and how he really didn't get any sleep at all. Arthur pointedly ignored this, stalking ahead of his manservant, willing the skinny man to _shut up_ before he alerted the fine stag he was currently targeting.

_To tell you the truth would be to tell you I saved your ungrateful arse, _yet again_, from some farfetched magical attempt at your life from Morgause. And as we speak, Morgause is more or less pounding into Morgana's seemingly innocent head different and creative ways to strip Uther of his life or crown—or possibly both. That _and _gathering Gaius' damned special moonglow herbs that can only be harvested at moon light and at the sand bed of a lake just outside the city of Camelot—you're lucky I got you up in time, you clotpole. _

Merlin's thoughts furiously circled in his head as he absentmindedly passed a bow and an arrow to Arthur when the blonde signalled quietly for the weapon. He watched Arthur gracefully ready the bow, drawing the nock back on the string, and he turned away the moment gloved fingers let go of the fletching of the arrow. Merlin winced when he heard the sickening sound of the arrow head embedding itself into the flesh of the stag. Arthur stood up, and handed Merlin the murder weapon and made to go over to the corpse.

Suddenly there was a flash of dark green robes darting through the corner of his vision. Merlin's eyes whipped in that direction, tracking for any further movement.

Familiar magic enveloped his senses.

Merlin's head snapped back to Arthur, who hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. The blonde was crouched down next to the stag, holding his hand out toward Merlin asking for his hunting knives and game bag. Merlin grumbled and shook himself out of his stupor, looking anywhere but the lifeless stag on the ground, its limbs in broken directions that really shouldn't be possible with its joints that would probably be painful were it alive, and glassy eyes so full of pain and fear. Merlin shoved the sheathed hunting knives into the bag, and clumsily threw it at Arthur, the bag landing just short of the blonde's outstretched hand. Arthur gave a scowl before snatching the bag and dragging it towards himself.

Merlin looked to the long-since dry river bank that marked the boundary between Essetir and Camelot to distract himself from Arthur making quick work of carving the game. The warlock-in-hiding smiled, if he continued this way past the border for a few miles he would run straight into the quaint town of Ealdor, his hometown. He wondered how his mother was faring without him, but the wonder was stopped short as a flash of dark green robes danced across the corner of his vision once more.

He looked back to Arthur to find the game already in the bag—most likely cut as clean as he could in the short amount of time that Merlin had had his back turned, and was standing curiously, staring past the game at his feet to something in the distance. Upon examining the scene in front of him further, he found that Arthur was staring at an opening to a cave.

Just within the border of Essetir, off to the side of the dried out river bed, lay a rise of rocks like a miniature cliff side—maybe only four or five feet fall—and around that, past a stretch of many green plants in a clearing, was the mouth of the cave. It wasn't obvious, nor was it hard to miss—it was simply _there_. As were the many trees, none really more noticeable than any other, not in a forest full of trees that simply _were_. If you weren't looking for the man-sized gap in the rise, it could easily be missed. What really caught Merlin's eye, though, was the soft magic coursing from the worn-out runes that had been carved just above the mouth of the cave—also easily overlooked if one were unobservant. The magic that was being emitted from the runes was weak, as if it had been placed there many years before, but Merlin could easily tell by the magic it gave off that it had been placed there by the druids.

There was another flash of the dark green hue.

Merlin jolted forwards, feeling the magic presence behind him that had been keeping only to the edges of his senses before. Turning his torso and head, he saw a hooded figure clad in dark green druidic robes. Wrinkled hands that had seen their fair share of years poked out of the large sleeves of the robes, carefully pushing back the hood that so recently covered the man's face. Merlin was met with the soft face and light green eyes that gave the hooded figure's identity away as Iseldir.

The druid chieftain smiled. "Emrys," he greeted gravely, though warmth was evident in his tone. Merlin turned to look at Arthur, but the prince was gone, the full bag of game in the prince's place. Merlin cursed softly, having almost had a panic attack before he caught the telltale Camelot colours over the Essetirian border and halfway towards the cave, oblivious to what was going on behind him.

Turning fully around towards Iseldir, Merlin gave a polite bow in acknowledgement before saying, "I should really follow him, lest he gets in trouble. I mean, he really shouldn't have crossed the border in the first place—such could be seen as an act of war towards Essetir, and who knows what kind of magic that cave holds... I should—"

"_Emrys,"_ Iseldir admonished. Merlin gave a sheepish smile to the wise druid, and nodded to him in acknowledgement, silently urging him to continue. "The cave is necessary. My ancestors placed it there for the very reason of pushing destiny forward, and I am bearing their initiative and vision forward. Without this, everything you have done will be for nought, as Arthur's vision will remain clouded by his father's hate for magic—even if he does feel guilt and remorse for the druids his father has ordered him to siege without mercy. You may return to Camelot, to your mentor; Arthur will not be back out for a while," Iseldir spoke, voice deep, raspy, and full of untold wisdom.

Merlin messed with the hem of his jacket sleeve, thoughts racing. "What if someone were to ambush him in the cave—like a mercenary or, God forbid, a group of bandits? They are everywhere! I can't just leave him here; I should really stay here and watch him..." The warlock finished his rant, looking upon Iseldir as he neared the end, speaking with enthusiasm and much emotion.

"Do not fret, Emrys, for that cave is protected by powerful magic," Iseldir said. Merlin gave a disbelieving look, not being able to pick up powerful magic around his person. The druid elder continued with a knowing tone, "Even if it doesn't _feel_ powerful. Only non-magical folk can enter, and even then they can only enter if they are pure of heart and intention."

Merlin looked pointedly at the cave, disbelieving, "A counter spell," he said simply.

"There is not a counter spell, as you would have to know the first spell in order to say the second." Iseldir said, simply.

_Not necessarily, _Merlin thought bitterly. _I don't feel comfortable leaving Arthur unprotected._

"The cave is used for ancient druid practices, and the type of protection spell is so old the counter spell has been lost, as druids teach magic to their youth through oral tradition. We do not write things down; so much knowledge in written words is too powerful. Also, the spell was not made to defend against an offensive attack; any magical or non-magical attack would be useless. Arthur will not be unprotected."

Merlin's head snapped back to Iseldir's profile as he spoke the last few lines. Merlin scowled, and looked to the ground beneath his feet, seemingly in embarrassment.

「_You were reading my thoughts._」

「_You speak loudly, Emrys. Learn to be able to control your mind. Druids rather close to us would be able to hear your thoughts being broadcast._」Merlin glanced back up at Iseldir's now amused smile. He felt smaller than the druid chieftain; the man had so much knowledge, so much wisdom.

"Again, do not fret, Emrys. Though you were born with magic, not everyone was born with the knowledge of how to control it. You have power, Emrys... you _are _power. Knowledge and wisdom are two different things—where as knowledge is plentiful, wisdom is very scarce. You do well to be worried about your other half." Iseldir smiled at Merlin once more, and as he finished speaking, all was silent.

_I have a feeling something is going to happen, _Merlin thought. _It is never so quiet, and nothing can be so calm. It is almost as if the forest itself is holding its breath in anticipation. _

「_You are correct, Emrys. Destiny is speaking._」Iseldir's reply was cut from Merlin's attention, as a powerful surge of magic shook Merlin out of his maelstrom of thoughts. Merlin's head wiped back to the cave, which was engulfed in white light, he heard whispers of a woman's voice before all he could see was white, blinding, powerful magic.

「 _Destiny is speaking._」


	2. Be Careful What You Wish For

Arthur mentally rolled his eyes as he noticed Merlin acting rather queasy around the dead stag. This was common—his manservant always had a knack for acting like a girl—but the sudden movement of green out of the corner of his eye was rather odd. He initially filed this under the regular sights of the forest, because the forest _was_, in fact, quite green. However, when he then felt a sudden, inexplicable pull towards the border of Essetir, he got to his feet and looked toward said border with conviction. Just there, in a clearing, was man-sized hole that lead into a cave. After only a moment's hesitation, he left the bag of stag parts by his feet and headed towards the cave without looking back.

When he arrived at the mouth of the cave, he unsheathed his sword. Making it to the cave had been an easy feat, but what would lie inside might not be. The opening was large enough for him to fit through, and there seemed to be only one path. There was a curious pale blue light—the only source of light in the cave—at the end of the tunnel he found himself travelling, which seemed to be origin of the pull. He let his hand trail along the rocky walls as he blindly made his way past the uneven terrain of the cave towards the centre.

The cave opened up into a perfectly circular room. Arthur could now see that the ethereal light came from the crystalline stone that was placed in the centre of the cave. He studied the smooth stone closer. The blonde pulled off his hunting gloves and hastily shoved them in his pocket after sheathing his sword.

There were words—symbols really—that marked the stone all the way around, highlighted in a teal blue that was the glowing of the large crystal itself. _Magic,_ thought Arthur, _the Old Religion, it must be. _Against his better judgment, he felt an urge to run his bare fingers across the symbols, and so he did. A woman's voice spoke to him, void of body, beautiful in tone and ethereal:

「_I am cause of no man's ire,_

_I shall give you your heart's desire._

_A wish will be fulfilled. _」

As her voice ingrained itself into his memory, he realised: he had one wish. He didn't know what compelled him to think so seriously on this. It was magic! It was certainly a hoax—a cruel trick.

He couldn't have his heart's desire.

Even so, '_a wish will be fulfilled_.' He couldn't explain his conviction, deep in his heart, that this was real. Should he choose to believe this fantasy, it wouldn't hurt to hope... to wish.

_One wish._

He was allowed any one wish—_what ever his heart desired_. He no longer questioned how this was possible. His eyes fluttered closed as his fingers brushed against the smooth, cool surface of the neatly carved crystalline stone once more, as his thoughts swam.

_Mother_, his eyes snapped open as a bright flash of light met his pale irises and a sensation washed over him of winged creatures being launched from fiery catapults in his stomach.

Words formed in his mind before he had even realised what he wanted.

_I wish my mother hadn't died in child birth._

He felt tendrils of unconsciousness pulling at him until he drifted off into a world of blissful oblivion as the white torrent of magic engulfed him.

「_And so it shall be done. _」

-x-

When his pale blue eyes met with the same darkness whether open or closed, Arthur wondered where he was. He sat up easily, reached out in front of him, and brushed against smooth crystal and engravings with fingers calloused from years of training with the knights. No longer was the stone glowing with ethereal light as it had before; there was nothing but darkness at the shallow heart of this cave.

_What was all that? Was just I hallucinating? _Carefully getting to his feet, he let the wall brace him in case he did something incredibly Merlin-like and tripped—which was quite impossible for him, mind you.

He walked carefully over the uneven terrain once more, a hand still casually resting on the side of the walls—not that he would lose his footing—to the exit of the cave. The sunlight outside shone with tell-tale signs of imminent sunset. Once out of the cave, he looked around himself, wary of an ambush. Those always seemed to happen around the border of Essetir—anywhere in the forests of Camelot, really.

Speaking of the other Kingdom, he crossed into the boundaries to get to the cave, hadn't he? That could mean trouble. He didn't want to be the cause of any tension, as the Peace Treaty between Camelot and Essetir was worn thin already, thanks to all the invasions that were waged against his country under Cenred's rule. His father hadn't really bothered getting acquainted with the new king—Lot was his name, he was fairly certain—afterwards, making it difficult for Arthur to tell what kind of man he was.

_Hopefully a forgiving one,_ Arthur thought, seeing a man patrolling the border of Camelot and Essetir nearby. He thought of ducking out of the way, but of course the other man would have already seen him. Arthur's attire stuck out like a bloody rose in a forest of uniform green.

As Arthur studied the man, he recognised him almost immediately. _Is that... Lancelot? He has given up wanting to be a knight of Camelot to be, _Arthur almost snorted, _in Essetir's service? He would be so much better training alongside me, in Camelot. If only father would allow such a thing._

In front of him did stand Lancelot, clad in royal blue knight's gear which vaguely resembled what King Cenred's knights should have worn—were they not all mercenaries, or worse, undead. Arthur idly wondered of the knights of Essetir were still as full of shite as they were before. As he further noted the detail of Lancelot's attire, he thought, _No, they must be serious now. Certainly King Lot is a different man than Cenred; else he wouldn't bother with a uniform as such. _Where a crude symbol of a snake once rested, an appropriately intricate crest of a white dragon now proudly displayed. Its tail looped and curved in what were either Celtic knots or Druid symbols; possibly both. This confused him further.

"Oi, you there," the man began, trotting closer to the blonde prince, looking as young as he was when Arthur had first laid eyes on him in the training grounds a few years back.

This was odd. Arthur knew it had been at least a good year since he had seen the other—he _must_ have aged since then. Arthur to ran a hand up over his face and into his hair; he didn't notice it before, but there was a difference up there too. Before he could check again, Lancelot was beside him. The blonde noticed he was shorter than Lancelot, more than he remembered. Arthur was sure he had gotten taller in his years of puberty.

The taller man brushed his fringe out of his eyes before continuing with his earlier statement, "What are you doing near these parts? You shouldn't be—oh." Lancelot paused a moment to observe the other young man's regal posture and crimson raiment emblazoned with a gold dragon crest. "You must be Prince Arthur!" Lancelot smiled and executed a respectful bow. Arthur hid his surprise that Lancelot showed no recognition whatsoever towards him behind a pompous snort. "The Lady Morgana had told me you like to wonder off without the knights. Said she, you feel like a hound on a leash, yeah?"

Arthur let his eyes wander to Lancelot's face, before answering, "She said that, did she?" Arthur almost winced at how boyish he sounded. That, most definitely, was _not_ a voice of a man well through puberty. No, it was the voice of a boy—young man at best. Maybe he hadn't hallucinated after all in that cave. Wait... why would he be younger? Arthur carefully masked his discomfiture at his reverted voice, clearing his throat and addressing the knight with his trademark I'm-a-Royal tone, "You oughtn't to listen to her; she doesn't know a thing of what I feel."

The Lady Morgana—could it be that she was... back to her old self now? His Lady Morgana, the sweet, empathic, do-what's-right-and-damn-the-consequences, sisterly—in heart and in reality!—girl whom he had missed... was back? He mentally frowned. In the last few months, she had grown cold and distant towards him, always feeding him father forced smiles. He let a smile touch his lips at the thought of his sister being back to the way he had known her, but the taller must had mistaken it for a smirk, as Lancelot did nothing to hide a snort.

"She was also careful to warn me, when I did meet you, to be wary of '_The most arrogant two-arsed nobleman you'll ever meet._' Ah, her words, not mine."

At this, Arthur raised a noble brow, drawling, "Right then." Yes, this was definitely the old Morgana. He had nearly forgotten the cheeky, teasing, beloved and utterly annoying side of her.

Lancelot cleared his throat awkwardly and let his chocolate eyes wander to the cave that Arthur had so recently exited. "As I was saying, you shouldn't be here; this cave is held sacred to Druid practices." Lancelot scanned the skies as he continued speaking. "There were also tales of a rampant griffin near the border to Camelot. I would advise caution when travelling this area for the time being."

The griffin—wasn't that the reason he and Lancelot had met in the first place? Lancelot had been tracking a griffin, and Merlin was almost eaten by the—heaven help him, _where was Merlin?!_

He furtively but frantically cast his eyes around the forest, looking for any sign of Merlin; usually the gangly manservant-turned-friend was within arms reach of him. Ever since he had set foot in the cave, he had forgotten everything else, all his focus on the curiosity pulling him to the centre of the cave full of ethereal lights. Forgetting Merlin—_how_ could he forget _Merlin_? The idiot couldn't keep himself upright on a normal day, much less a day where he had left him bare in the bandit infested woods, alone! Where was he, here? Where was _here_ exactly, anyway?

"—sire?" Arthur jolted out of his reverie when Lancelot's querying tone finally reached him.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, shall we go, sire?"

Arthur's gaze fell upon Lancelot once more, and waited. His pride would not allow him to do anything which may cause him to appear foolish, such as asking, _'Go where_?'

Lancelot wisely ignored the prince's confusion and spoke with deference, "I had suggested that we should travel to the closest Druid encampment for the night, and set out for the castle walls by morning. You know how your father and my King are; thick as thieves, I say. I would also like to question the druid chieftain about the whereabouts of the griffin before we make it to the feast."

Arthur refused to let confusion show on his face and simply gave an affirmative grunt.

"It's close by, not a long walk at all. Come, let us go," Lancelot looked to Arthur and nodded once, before setting off. Arthur followed closely behind.

_We were willingly seeking out the Druids for shelter for the night? But seeking out the druids as well as my father and the king of Essetir being as—as thick as thieves? This is more than odd, this has to be insane! Feasts were common courtesy for one royal family visiting another, but for what reason would Uther _ever_ want to visit Lot? It must be a different ruler here. _Arthur knew the ban on magic didn't have such a strong hold on Essetir as it did Camelot, thanks to Cenred, but he didn't think magic would be accepted easily so close to the border of his homeland. Was there a ban on magic at all?

_I wish my mother hadn't died in child birth._

_And so it shall be done._

That _had_ happened. The pain of his mother's death had caused Uther to instate the ban on magic. The High Priestess Nimueh had traded his mother's life in order to give birth to an heir: to him. _A life for a life_, she had said.

After meeting Morgause and discovering the truth about his birth, he had spent some time digging in Camelot's vaults, curious about the members of the court before The Purge. He discovered that Nimueh, along with many others of varying magical natures, had been _part_ of the court's advisers. She had even been a close friend of his mother's, from what he had overheard from Gaius from the elder's tales of his younger years. At that time, Gaius was still court physician—using herbs _and_ magic—and adviser regarding magical creatures, but he was considered something of Camelot's second court sorcerer… the first being Nimueh herself.

Uther was no fool, he was warned that a life would be taken—but he didn't want to believe it would be his lovely wife. He let his despair blind him to the truth. He blamed Nimueh and he blamed magic itself.

Morgause had told the truth about his birth. Arthur had realised this after... he had nearly killed his father because of it. The sympathetic looks that Gaius sent his way, and the way Merlin hid his emotions from him a week or so thereafter didn't help his suspicions.

If not my mother, then… who—_who?!_—died for me in this time? Had anyone died for my birth at all? _I feel as if I am off my trolley, I _must _be dreaming. There is no way this is real—magic caused it. There isn't any plausible way my mother could be alive simply because I wished it so. The only explanation is, I blacked out after the crystal in the cave spoke—no, it didn't speak, I was merely hallucinating—and Lancelot, after being banned from Camelot, was knighted in Essetir. It was far too obvious that Essetir had no regard for who fought their battles. Cenred's army was, in fact, made of nothing but mercenaries—soldiers who fought for gold and not glory or honour. A man without noble blood wouldn't faze them at all._

"Up ahead, sire," Lancelot's voice sounded from in front of him.

Arthur grimaced with distaste. _I'm not going to get used to him being so formal with me. Has he truly not met me yet—or, uh, here—in this dream?_

The two men approached the edge of the forest, which opened onto a large clearing. They now walked upon a well-worn dirt path, no paved roads to disturb the natural flow. Looking further into the clearing, Arthur spied an enormous structure. He wondered why he hadn't noticed it before; he must have been too deep in thought. A fort, of sorts, took up the area formerly occupied where he knew a sprawling, colourful array of tents would have been. Logs from different sorts of trees, their tops sharpened to points, jutted vertically from the soft ground of the clearing, packed side by side. As he got closer, he noticed more runes on the gate of the encampment, not unlike the ones he had seen in the cave.

Arthur asked, "What are those then; some kind of weird curses?" His tone was slightly mocking and he was obviously teasing the other knight, but he wouldn't put it past magic users to have put runes on an encampment for the sole purpose of cursing all who entered.

Lancelot smiled, and tapped his fingers over the runes. "Protection charms," the knight corrected, giving a cheeky smile over his shoulder. "I know some kingdoms aren't as magic savvy as we are, but I'd at least expect you to know a simple protection charm when you see one, _sire_." Backing up a few paces, Lancelot waved at the top of the gate. There must have been someone there because the gate quickly rose, creating a gap big enough for them to enter.

It was then Arthur realised that the only way the gate would have been drawn up so quickly was because of magic. Passing under the gate he noticed that the logs were sharply pointed on both sides—which only added to his nervousness—not that Arthur Pendragon was ever nervous, mind you. Maybe the Druids weren't as peaceful in this time—this dream state he was in. That would be unsettling, as this _unreal _place was becoming far too surreal for his liking.

_Magic_ is unsettling. Dangerous. _Evil. It has to be, there isn't another explanation for this—this cruel joke it's trying to pull. My mother died because of magic—because of me. It was all because my father was a selfish bastard—only wanted an heir, didn't care who lost their life unless it took away from him. But it was still _magic _that caused the whole ordeal. _

Once they entered, his thoughts and view were both blocked by a muscular torso: the man was clad in a sleeveless version of the uniform Lancelot wore. The man's muscles looked like they had been sculpted from granite.

Lancelot cheerfully greeted the torso, "Percival, how have you been?" Arthur's gaze snapped to the sleeveless man's face. _It IS Percival!_ He hid a chuckle, glancing at the modification to the uniform, musing, _I should have known. _

Arthur had met Percival briefly when they were on the secret—by _secret_ he meant only his father didn't know about it—quest to save Guinevere from her captives, who mistook her for the Lady Morgana. Arthur smiled at the thought and glanced over at Lancelot, remembering how he and Guinevere had gotten on. He wondered if the two had met in this odd place, and if they were attracted to each other here, too. Arthur hid a soft chuckle and looked expectantly at Lancelot, wondering if he was going to introduce him to the sleeveless knight.

"Ah, yes, forgive my manners, sire. This is Percival—he's stationed at the Druid camp for their protection." Lancelot flashed a smile to the prince, "Not that they need it, but the king wouldn't hear of any sort of refusal. Come to think of it—the only reason that Iseldir was open to the idea of having a knight as a guard staying with them was because Percival's family has close ties to the Druids and their customs." Turning to the muscle man, Lancelot added, "Isn't that so?"

Percival gave a nod in affirmation and threw a coy smile in Lancelot's direction before appraising Arthur. Seeming to have found nothing hostile in Arthur's stance, Percival gave an approving nod before stepping out of the young prince's way.

Arthur got his first full view of the camp. Children ran around a bonfire of reds and oranges, and here were the many colourful tents he recalled, scattered around the encampment grounds. The atmosphere seemed to tingle with energy and peace—smiles and laughter rang out from the children at play. To his left lay a well, where a blonde woman was fetching water while simultaneously fussing over a young boy in a teal cloak. He felt a sense of familiarity wash over him while looking at the Druid boy—had he met the boy before? He knew it wasn't from one of the raids his father had ordered. He felt a sense of pride when he looked at the boy, though he couldn't recall why. He wouldn't have felt this pride triggered by a young boy he had been told to kill, _surely_. He couldn't resolve his blank memory for the life of him; it would most likely bother him for the rest of his stay here.

Lancelot walked ahead, after giving Percival a one armed hug. The dark haired knight turned, noticing that Arthur had stopped following him when they had reached just inside the entrance of the encampment, as the blonde prince was immersed in taking in his surroundings. Lancelot cleared his throat loudly, gaining Arthur's attention with eyebrows raised in question.

"Let us speak with Iseldir about sleeping arrangements," Lancelot said, beckoning Arthur to follow him.

Arthur fell into pace behind Lancelot and asked, "Who is Iseldir?" Instead of answering the question, Lancelot stopped walking as he made it to a large forest green tent that was in the centre of the encampment, and gestured towards the opening. Arthur frowned, as his question was not answered, but he pushed through the tent flaps anyway with Lancelot in tow.

"Young Pendragon," a voice greeted him. Arthur looked around in the tent. There was little clutter, and every thing was in its place. There was a bookshelf to one side that held many books and trinkets that he presumed were of a magical nature. To one side of the tent lay a small table in one corner with a neat triskelion carved in the centre, a sleeping mat near the back edge of the tent, and what looked to be an alchemist's table in the other corner. The floor was adorned with expertly woven rugs.

He then noticed a man clad in an oddly _familiar_ pair of dark green robes holding a mortar and pestle and was leaning over the alchemist's table. There were potions and concoctions bubbling happily upon the table and candlelight swayed curiously from the centre of the poles that were stabilizing the tent.

"I am Iseldir, Druid Chieftain." Iseldir gave a knowing smile as Arthur's pale blue eyes met his soft green hue. Iseldir then turned to Lancelot. "You are to ask if you can stay the night, Ser Lancelot, and the answer is always yes, as I have told you before. A friend to Emrys is always welcome here." Iseldir set down the mortar and pestle. "You are heading to the castle in the morning." Arthur thought it was also curious for a question to be said like a statement as Lancelot gave a nod. "_Do_ have the message passed along to Gaius that I greatly appreciate our mutually beneficial exchange of herbs common to each of our lands. I pray he is well," Iseldir told Lancelot, and proceeded to walk out of the tent.

The dark haired knight followed Iseldir, and Arthur figured that was enough invitation to do the same. "There is a well close to the entrance and our training grounds are in a separate section. There are many gates leading into the forest and the rest of the town, but there are mostly tents for the druid community here," Iseldir explained, for Arthur's benefit. The druid chieftain turned to Lancelot, "Please tell Emrys we expect to be visited by him in the near future."

"Of course," Lancelot gave a genuine smile at the mentioned name. Arthur, however, felt lost. _Who is Emrys, then? He seems quite the topic of conversation here. Would he be another druid leader? _

"Emrys?" Arthur asked, intrigued on the weight of the name when the druid chieftain spoke of it.

_Emrys-s-s... _A waterfall of whispers rushed by from the Druids as Arthur asked this question. He wasn't sure if the echo and sprinkling of whispers were all in his head or not.

「_Emrys…_」The name was repeated many more times, as if chanting an important mantra or prayer.

"To the non-magical people of the Kingdom, he is known as the Prince of The Land. To us, he is known as the Lord Emrys," Iseldir explained. The name echoed around the encampment once more, the whispers bouncing off of the few trees in sight. Looking around, Arthur realized that their trio had drawn a small crowd.

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, once more, but a druid girl ran out from the crowd and stumbled into him. She murmured a quick apology towards the blonde prince, but her attention was far from him. She gave an awed smile to her tribe leader and Lancelot. "Mum has told me stories," she began excitedly, "about Emrys." As if on cue, the name was whispered around once more, like a word of power. If by the Druids, Arthur couldn't tell. The swirling soft voices seemed to be coming from the forest itself.

Arthur allowed his gaze roam over the girl. She seemed to be entering early adolescence, with dark wisps of brown hair framing her face and deep brown, doe-like eyes. The young lass had an almost innocent air about her; he knew she must be a very likeable girl by the fond looks she gained from Lancelot, and Percival—who had quietly come to stand beside the dark haired knight.

"Do you want to hear them, Ser?" At this, Arthur realised that the girl was directing her attention towards him, and not Lancelot who stood beside him. Arthur was taken slightly aback, these _stories _were likely magical—being told by a druid—he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear them.

-x-

_I thought it might be best to clear some things up: I have this fic set towards the end of season three. _

_And, of course, I changed a few things, as Arthur didn't meet Percival so soon, and Lancelot gave Gwen up for Arthur and all of _that _jazz, as well as Morgana not being_ fully _evil, just mislead_._ (:_

_Prepare for a long one next chapter! And thank you for all who have followed and reviewed, you're all so sweet. Cheers!_


	3. Remembering and Making Connections

Lancelot nodded encouragingly at Arthur, noticing the boy wasn't looking keen to listen to some little girl's story. The knight figured that Arthur, being a _prince_, was supposedly too good to listen to what the druid girl had to say. "Freya has a knack for telling stories, your highness. The oral tradition is very important to our people, so storytellers are very highly regarded. Freya has no small experience and greatly enjoys sharing tales of our history with new listeners. You really should indulge yourself and listen to one," the dark-haired knight told the blonde haired prince.

_Your highness_. It really was going to take a while for Arthur to get used to being treated so formally by someone who was—could be—one of his best knights; one of Essetir's knights, now. Lancelot smiled at the young druidess as her eyes widened and excitement blossomed in her posture as she watched Arthur's face with hope clearly etched on her features.

"Your highness?" the druid girl, Freya, repeated the proper title Lancelot had used to address Arthur. She looked towards Arthur with eager eyes, questioning, "Are you a prince?" Arthur nodded slowly. "Oh! You must be the Prince of Camelot! Iseldir told us you were going to make an appearance soon," Freya finished with a happy smile, proud that she had remembered such an important detail.

Arthur let his head fall slightly to one side in question, though he said nothing. _Did Iseldir foresee this with magic, or did he simply receive word from the castle that I was to be visiting?_

Freya furrowed her brow thoughtfully, murmuring to herself, "Though he did tell us a couple of months ahead of time." Arthur almost didn't catch the words that she uttered.

_Seer. He is _definitely_ a seer._

"Shall we hear a few stories before we rest for the night, eh, Percival?" Lancelot nudged the bulky knight, who enjoyed the stories about Emrys and druidic prophecies. Percival nodded firmly in agreement, shooting Arthur an encouraging smile. The muscular man tilted his head towards Freya, indicating Arthur should pay attention to the very enthusiastic druid girl, who was bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet with anticipation.

Lancelot turned his attention back to Arthur with a welcoming smile. "We've heard these stories multiple times. I'm sure Freya would love to tell them to a fresh audience."

Freya's sweet, childlike smile was very hard to deny. Arthur sighed and inevitably gave in. "Go on, then," he mumbled almost sulkily.

Freya's smile split her face before she burst out excitedly, "Percival, which story should I tell? A _prince_, Percy, I'm telling one of my stories to a _prince!"_ The girl giggled, sending a smile to Arthur.

"You've told stories to Emrys before, and he enjoyed them," Lancelot pointed out.

Freya blushed slightly, and sputtered out, "Well, that's different! I _know_ him, and the stories are about him! He's like a brother to me; a _big_ brother, like Percival!" Freya said, skipping over to the muscle man, and clung to his arm.

"So! What story should I tell the prince of Camelot?" she asked again as she tugged the large knight towards the enormous central bonfire. She situated them upon one of the many logs that surrounded the roaring flames.

Lancelot laughed and winked at Arthur. "I think she fancies her so called 'brother,'" Lancelot teased Freya whilst walking towards the girl.

Freya huffed indignantly. "_I do not! _And besides, he's a _prince_," she trailed off, face flushed.

Arthur mumbled under his breath, "What's wrong with being a prince, then?'

"Maybe I should tell the one where Emrys meets the second of the three high priestesses and learns he needs to go on a quest to the White Mountains get a pure white dragon egg so it can be hatched on time or—or where he defended Camelot by defeating the all powerful dark mage Cornelius Sigan—"

"Where was I during that?" Arthur interrupted Freya's waterfall of ideas, confused.

"I believe Ser Leon said you were on a hunting trip when milord and I visited Camelot for that meeting, we were rather disappointed we didn't get to meet you in person," Lancelot explained with a smile. He and Arthur took their seats on the same long log.

Freya's verbal deluge continued as though it had never ceased, "—oh, Percival, do you remember the one where Emrys had pretended to be a peasant with his manservant and got caught in a bar fight? One of our newest knights got his knighthood because of that, didn't he?" Freya smiled, knowing the answer to that question was positive.

Arthur's eyebrows raised to his hairline, he was sure that one sounded familiar—he, himself, had pretended to be a peasant with Merlin _and_ had gotten into a bar fight, but that was with _Gwaine_, the roguish traveller whose company he had enjoyed.

"I could tell about how he first met the Lady Morgana when she had first discovered her magical talents? I've heard that was very interesting, since she didn't know how to control herself. Didn't she sneeze and accidently create strong winds that whisked Emrys out of a castle window?" Freya giggled. "Or—or—!" She trailed off for a moment in thought. "Percival, do you have an idea?" she asked Percival once more, chin in hand as she waited.

Arthur and Lancelot both looked expectantly at Percival, but only one of the two wondered if the well-built knight was going to answer Freya's question. Percival looked deep in thought and torn between a few choices. During this brief lull, Arthur happened to look back over his shoulder to see Iseldir darting back into his tent, dismissing himself from this conversation. Potions to finish, no doubt.

"Maybe you could tell the story of Nimueh's recent defeat?" Lancelot asked. Percival's eyes brightened at the question and he nodded quickly in agreement. Arthur didn't know if he should be disappointed that the quiet knight hadn't spoken... or if he should have known he wouldn't have uttered a single word at all.

"Oh, _yes_!" Freya clapped her hands together and stood from the log in one fluid motion. She looked around at the small group she had gathered, focusing especially on the two Essetirian knights and the prince of Camelot. Arthur blinked in surprise as he watched her prepare herself. The girl seemed to... _shift_, an accomplished and polished storyteller appeared where once a little girl had stood. Her demeanour changed, she held herself differently, and her voice, when she spoke, held weight.

"Now, everyone knows that Emrys was long foretold to be the most powerful warlock who walks the earth, greater than those who once walked the earth and greater still than any who ever _will_ walk the earth," Freya began, eyes twinkling.

Arthur looked taken aback. _Someone _that_ powerful? Did this person exist before I made that wish? No, he couldn't have... I've not even heard mention of him before,_ he mused, then blinked and listened again as the girl continued.

"But! There was once a high priestess... named Nimueh," Freya regaled her audience. Arthur didn't bother to hide his scowl at the name of the witch who had tried to kill him and destroy his kingdom on multiple occasions. He lost himself again in the cadence of Freya's voice, as her storytelling was remarkable. She didn't recite the story so much as perform it with gestures, movement, changing volume, pace, fluid facial expressions and dramatic pauses.

"She was nice, and fair, but the power of being a high priestess consumed her. She became empty inside, nothing but a void which only more power could fill: she wanted the throne of Essetir for herself. To this end, the witch sent out... a questing beast. _One_ bite from such a beast would surely seal a man's fate, as it was a creature conjured from the worst nightmares of a long dead king. _Not only_ is its bite fatal, _but_ it is feared as an omen of _impending doom_..." Freya trailed off ominously, before continuing with a proud smile.

"Our king rode to fight it. He wanted to attack it straightaway, for he would_ not_ let the creature threaten _his_ kingdom."

Freya paused and looked around at her audience, her face set in a grave expression before she spoke three words: "He was bitten."

Arthur noticed Lancelot smiling softly at Freya's performance; Percival appeared hypnotized, sitting as far forward on the log as he could as he hung on the girl's every word. He smiled to himself at the gentle giant's rapt enjoyment of the story he had obviously heard many times before. He scanned the audience as well: young, old, male, female; the mix of listeners was varied and grew slowly as other villagers were drawn to the performance. He quickly turned his own attention back to the story in progress, hoping he hadn't missed much.

"To aid the king, Emrys made the long trek to The Isle of the Blessed, where Nimueh resided: beyond the White Mountains, through the Valley of The Fallen Kings, and to the north of the Great Seas of Meredor.

"He made a deal with the witch: his life for his father's. Nimueh reluctantly agreed to the deal and gave Emrys a cup of enchanted water, which, when his father drank it, would initiate the trade of life forces. In a short time, Emrys was on his way back to his kingdom.

"As promised, the king was back in good health after imbibing the enchanted water, but Emrys did not feel the ill effects of dying... no, it was our lady queen whose life force began to slowly dwindle. Enraged, Emrys stormed to the Isle of the Blessed once more. He would remind the priestess of their deal, demand that it was _his_ life to be taken, not anyone else's!

"When the warlock arrived at the Isle, he found to his great dismay that his good friend and manservant, William, had already confronted the sorceress for him... and taken his place by offering his own life in trade for the queen's. His lifeless form lay sprawled next to the altar in the middle of the island, an empty cup near his outstretched hand. Emrys angrily confronted the duplicitous dark-haired damsel and demanded that she bring his manservant back."

"She said... that Emrys was not destined to die at her hands," Freya took this moment to take in a deep breath.

Arthur blinked and thought, _I've heard that line before. Not destined to die at her hands... _The prince sighed quietly as he recalled when the very same enchantress had manipulated him into thinking she was a victim of her made-up master's attacks and that she had been lost in the forest that, come to think of it, she must have known very well. Out of supposed gratitude for saving her from a cockatrice she claimed she would show him the morteaus flower in a secluded cave... which was, of course, a trap. "_You are not destined to die at my hands_," she had said, before leaving him to a horde of spiders. The memory came and went in an instant, leaving him to the story in progress.

"Nimueh then offered Emrys a deal: they could join forces and take over the seven kingdoms together, as they each held considerable power. Unfortunately for the priestess, she made a fatal error: she underestimated our prince's loyalty and devotion to his kingdom."

Freya smiled and scanned the audience, making eye contact with various members of her small crowd. Fully immersed in her storytelling, she continued speaking.

"Emrys vehemently rejected her invitation to the dark side, so to speak: he threw a spell at her, but Nimueh easily dodged. Emrys, for his part, had underestimated the witch's prowess in magical duels.

"The scorned high priestess threw a forceful fireball at Emrys which hit him right in the chest, burning him painfully," she pounded her fists against her youthful, flat chest and staggered back a couple paces, indicating where and how badly Emrys had been hit. "Our prince is no slouch in a magical duel; fuelled by his anger and despair, he had already struck back with a vengeance.

"At the precise moment the fireball left Nimueh's fingertips, Emrys called upon the elemental power of lightening. An enormous deluge of crackling energy pulsed into existence, a writhing, rope-like formation appearing to be woven from hundreds of normal lightning bolts!" Freya stood dramatically, stance wide and arms reaching toward the clouds, which were tinted with the colours of the approaching sunset.

"The sizzling bolt of dazzling death surged from sky to skin, striking Nimueh as dead as, well, a door nail." Freya giggled at the simile she had used and Lancelot chuckled under his breath.

"William began to stir from his position collapsed by the altar where the short yet fierce battle had taken place, completing the circle of sacrifices to save lives. Emrys had gained the power over Life and Death," Freya wistfully smiled. "A life for a life, as they say," She murmured quietly and seemed to loose herself in thought in that moment.

Percival smiled at the story, and looked to his companions, eager to hear their opinions of the story. It was one of his favourites, after all!

Arthur winced slightly at Freya's last choice of words, _a life for a life_; it seemed to be a popular theme with magic.

"How did you like that one?" Freya addressed Arthur, her face flushed and eyes sparkling with excitement. "Shall I tell another story?"

Before Arthur replied, Lancelot cleared his throat and quietly spoke to Freya, "Your mum is probably looking for you by your tent, Freya, and she may be worried." The dark-haired man looked towards the sky, now painted with dusk, and gave her a friendly wink. "It's rather late; you should be asleep by now, anyway."

Freya quickly nodded. "Of course!" She stood up and bowed towards her audience, chirping, "Thank you for listening today!" With an adorable smile adorning her lips she skipped away from the bonfire and toward her waiting mother.

"She... wow. She's a sweet girl," Arthur said, more than a bit awed by the story that had been told. Lancelot nodded in agreement and opened his mouth to speak, but the soft, deep voice which met Arthur's ears did not match with the dark-haired knight at all.

"I love listening to her tell stories. Her eyes get this focused look to them, and I can almost see the world around her get so small while the story in her head grows."

Arthur realised it was Percival who had spoken. Startled, he really couldn't form a coherent response to the sleeveless knight's surprisingly insightful statement.

Lancelot only nodded with a smile to his fellow comrade in arms. "We should get some rest for the night ourselves. Please allow me to show you to your tent," Lancelot directed his final statement towards Arthur as he got to his feet, ready to escort the blonde prince to his sleeping quarters.

-x-

Arthur's tent was a soft blue colour, located near the large chieftain's tent in a position of honour. Supposing he should prepare to rest for the night, Arthur removed his boots and stockings and his bare feet were gratefully met with a soft, woven rug. Its worn state spoke of its age, but it was obviously very clean. He set his boots under a table—adorned with the ubiquitous triskelion symbol—then pulled his leather hunting gloves out of his pocket and tossed them atop the same table.

Staring down at his shining armour, he gave a scowl and decided to unhook the clasp to his cape before even _starting _to pull off the bulky armour. With the crimson cloak folded neatly and placed on top of the same small table, covering the gloves, Arthur began to ponder different strategies to escape from his armour.

Well, the belt was always next. After much more trouble than he really felt it should take, he managed to figure out that his belt had slid down and become wedged below the tassets at the bottom of his breastplate instead of staying at his midsection where it was supposed to be centred. Arthur scowled and realised it was because that _idiot _Merlin had put too many holes in the belt and fastened the thing so it would be just loose enough to slip below his armour. He reached to unbuckle the belt and discovered that the buckle itself was located in a most inconvenient position nearly in the middle of his backside. Arthur raised an incredulous eyebrow. Really?

"_Oi, you can't even dress yourself without me!" _Merlin's cheeky voice sounded in his head, a memory of their banter earlier that day—was that really only this morning?—before they had gone on their fateful hunting trip. The boy had been unusually early, but it was probably due to the fact his manservant _hadn't_ gotten any sleep after he returned so late from gathering herbs.

Arthur sighed, but valiantly continued the effort to undress himself. Since the belt was always next when he had Merlin's assistance, he was determined to stick as close to familiar patterns as possible. Thus, he grunted as he attempted to quickly reach his still-plate-covered arms behind himself and under the metal tassets to reach the belt buckle, instead of going over like a sensible person would have. Naturally this caused him to overbalance and fall backwards, accompanied by a cacophony of crashing metal armour.

Lancelot chose this moment to burst through the tent flaps with folded cloth material in his hands and concern on his face. "Your Highness, I heard a ruckus! Is there something the matter, are you—" the dark haired knight halted mid-sentence, his eyes widening as they discovered the heap of prince on the ground. Lancelot felt a laugh bubble in his throat and he struggled to control himself. Arthur could feel his face heat up in embarrassment from his place on the floor. Lancelot murmured a quick apology and took a deep breath to calm his laughter.

The dark-haired man then laughed quietly once more, before saying kindly, "Here, please allow me to help you with that." He set the blankets down on Arthur's sleeping mat and moved to the blonde prince, helping him to his feet. Arthur gave a rather embarrassed chuckle and gladly let Lancelot assist with removing his pauldrons, vambraces and plackerts. The large pieces of armour were set on the floor next to his boots and Arthur victoriously spun his belt around so that the buckle was in front and undid it with a flourish. He stacked his belt, scabbard and sword on top of his folded red raiment. After Lancelot helped Arthur remove the heavy chainmail shirt he gave a satisfied sigh whilst removing the scratchy gambeson underneath from his torso. He mumbled a soft 'thanks' that Lancelot probably didn't hear.

"I will be in the tent next to yours, if you need me," Lancelot said with a polite smile. "I have to take care of something first—here are some extra blankets from Iseldir, should you need them," the dark-haired Essetirian knight gestured to the neat squares of folded blankets that the knight had tossed onto his makeshift bed, which Arthur gladly accepted. Lancelot gave a nod as he bade Arthur good night and disappeared through the tent flap.

The prince quite easily took off his tunic and trousers and tossed them atop the wooden chest in the far corner of the tent. The blonde nodded to himself, proud of his accomplishment. Since he had gotten comfortable, he made his way to the simple mat in the middle of the tent, mussing up the blankets around him. Arthur yawned widely, he hadn't realised how tired he was until Lancelot departed. _I wonder… if I am to sleep… will I wake up back in Camelot with all of this having only been one strange dream? _He pondered this thought before he slipped off into a refreshing, easy sleep.

-x-

Arthur woke early, his internal clock accustomed to Merlin waking him at daybreak. He sat up and pushed the blankets off of his bare chest. Sleepily rubbing calloused hands over his face, he tentatively cracked an eyelid and took in his surroundings. _...I am still here. Am I not living a dream, then? _Standing, clad in only his pants, he stooped and grabbed his trousers and jumped into them. He picked up his tunic and put that on easily enough, then looked to his armour with a sinking feeling. He was _not _going to ask someone else for help with this—especially with Merlin's teasing voice saying things like, '_You're going to be a king, and you can't even put on your clothes by yourself?'_

After donning his armour with much difficulty, Arthur walked out of his tent. He was met with the sight of Percival and Lancelot talking quietly as Percival tended food on a spit and a frying pan in the bonfire. Percival was first to notice Arthur and threw an apple to the blonde prince, who caught it nonchalantly.

Lancelot noticed Arthur's quiet entrance after Percival had greeted the prince, glanced towards him, "Good morning, your highness! We should be able to depart soon, ser; I sent out a messenger bird last night to the capital for horses. One of your knights should be by to escort us."

Arthur gave a polite nod of acknowledgement as he stared into the bonfire. He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes, sure he was seeing things. He looked again, but it was the same: the wood wasn't burning. Granted, it was most definitely on fire, but it wasn't being consumed—the logs weren't even blackened. No wood ever need be added to this bonfire! _That's pretty convenient, I suppose—for magic. _He yawned, biting into his apple hungrily.

"Did you sleep well, ser?" Lancelot's voice rang out.

Arthur nodded absent-mindedly. _And you can't convince me I've awakened from this dream. _

Percival continued to quietly and efficiently prepare different foodstuffs and pack them in a leather bag that Lancelot was holding, for rations when they would travel to the capital of Essetir.

"We should be able to reach the city by dusk if we depart soon. Should we not make it then we shall stay the night in the lower town and set out to the castle the next morning," Lancelot said, as he reached into a small pouch depending from the belt on his hip and pulled out a small scroll. "Along with our king's official reply, it seems that the Lady Morgana has snuck you a letter as well," the dark-haired knight smiled, handing the scroll to Arthur, who took the proffered paper almost cautiously.

Unfurling the scroll, he read, in Morgana's neat cursive script,

_Within the great Essetirian castle walls we are waiting on a feast. Why? Simply because my idiot of a brother decided to get off track because he was sick of being watched by daddy's dogs. How child-like, Arthur. You'll be pleased to know that I sent a 'competent' knight to your rescue. Although I hear you're being tended by Lancelot; _very_ competent, in Guinevere's—my maidservant, since you never bother to remember names—eyes. Aw, you should see her now: she's blushing like a maiden; how adorable!_

Arthur could almost hear her teasing laughter to her friend, a sound Arthur had missed hearing.

_Now, I've insisted that they send you Leon and George—such a perfect servant, don't you think? I know you _never _get enough of his brass jokes._

Arthur scowled, knowing full well that Morgana had sent the perfect yet utterly _boring _servant on purpose, most likely to irritate him. He then couldn't help cracking a smile followed by a light-hearted laugh, his eyes full of mirth. S_he _would _do something like that just to annoy me, wouldn't she? _

_Enough of that, I am eagerly awaiting your arrival. You may not know; but their kingdom has great feasts as well as beautiful magic displays. I do hope you hurry your arrogant ego and make to the castle—though with how big it is, you might have some trouble lugging it along with you. Scratch that: you've had it with you your whole life; I'm sure it's just the usual exercise to you by now._

_The king is very eager to meet the egotistical son of his best friend; the queen wishes a nice noble friend for her son. I've already told them not to expect much, don't worry—you won't have to please them at all. The prince is sweet, yet other nobles his around his age tend to be a bit intimidated. You better not be a twat to him like you are other nobles, Arthur! He might actually tolerate you. See you soon, I hope, and try not to get yourself killed, you idiot. _

_With much love and something akin to tolerance, Morgana_

Arthur shook his head, and smiled at her sassy writing. This _was _the Morgana he knew and loved; there was no doubt about that. The blonde prince rolled the scroll up tightly and slid it into his pocket in thought about this prince—_Emrys, _they called him_._

'Yet, other nobles tend to be a bit intimidated,' Arthur reread. He supposed it was because of his magic—he had heard the story of Emrys being able to call the very lightningfrom the sky and strike a high priestess '_dead_ _as a door nail_'—Freya's phrasing very cleverly made light of that, Arthur realised. Not to mention that the Essetirian prince had gained power over life and death… though since Arthur didn't really understand what that entailed, he was more impressed by the lightning-on-demand.

The blonde ran his fingers through his hair—a nervous habit, not that he would ever admit it—while he thought. _The stories have to be fabricated, even if just a little. No one could be that powerful, even if they did have magic. No magical threat to Camelot was ever hard to overcome. They were more like… a pesky infestation more than an _actual _threat. _He wondered if Emrys was as arrogant as he had first imagined—Morgana seemed to like him just fine. _However, since she had seemed a bit taken by Valiant, who was a complete arse, it wasn't saying _that _much._

At the thought of the knight Valiant—_who didn't deserve the title_ _'knight,' _Arthur thought bitterly—Arthur thought of a weak magic attempt at his life. The man had an enchanted shield, which was easy to see through as the snakes _came out of the shield of their own accord. _Out of the shield, they were just snakes, no different from those which Arthur would simply crush under a boot whilst he was hunting.

Pensively, Arthur then pondered what he had heard of the Questing Beast and its supposedly fatal bite. Arthur, himself, didn't die. If he believed the tale Freya related, someone would have had to make a deal with Nimueh: their life to save his. But who would have done such a thing? Arthur sighed, rubbing his temples until a memory of a quite… odd conversation came to the forefront of his mind.

"_I need to talk to you." Merlin had rushed into his room, confronting Arthur._

"_You still haven't got it yet, have you? I decide when we need to talk." Arthur had replied, lazily twirling his goblet of wine in his hand._

"_Not today," Merlin stated defiantly, almost daring Arthur to argue with him._

"_I sometimes wonder if you know who I am," the blonde uttered, voice filled with disbelief and a hint of wonder._

"_Oh, I know who you are," Merlin declared, a smirk forming on his face._

"_Good," the blonde began, haughtily._

_Merlin cut his words short with, "You're a prat, and a royal one at that."_

_Arthur really should have expected that one. He remembered chuckling before asking_, _"Are you ever going to change, Merlin?"_

_Merlin gave a melancholy smile before saying softly, "No, you'd get bored." In a stronger voice, now that his resolve for what he had wanted to say no longer threatened to leave him, he continued, "But promise me this: if you get another servant, don't get a bootlicker." _

"_If this is you trying to leave your job..." Arthur warned voice low._

"_No," Merlin had quickly answered, "I'm happy to be your servant. Till the day I die."_

_They stared at each other a while, pale blue eyes locked with determined dark blue ones before Arthur admitted, "Sometimes I think I know you, Merlin. Other times," Arthur had shaken his head in disbelief here, choosing not to continue what he would have said._

"_Well, I know _you,_" Merlin had given a soft smile, "and you're a great warrior. One day, you'll be a great king." _

"_That's very kind of you," Arthur had said slowly, having fully expected Merlin to make a jab at him. _

"_But you must learn to listen as well as you fight," Merlin had chided._

"_Any other pointers?" Arthur had sarcastically asked._

"_No, that's it. Just… don't be a prat." Merlin had quickly left the room after that. _

Until the day I die… _Merlin, of course. _That was right after Arthur had miraculously healed from the so-called _fatal _bite. Merlin would have been the only one reckless and _thoughtless _enough to sacrifice his _life _for the prince's—and Arthur wouldn't have even _known. _That odd conversation that stuck in his mind—it had been his farewell.

When Morgana had told him the next morning that Gaius had neglected to bring the lady her sleeping draught for the night, he had thought nothing of it; he figured that Gaius had forgotten in his strife to retrieve Merlin from the local tavern as his manservant loved to spend his time there—didn't he? _The two of them were both gone that night, after Merlin talked to me, _Arthur realised, as Merlin hadn't attended him that evening. Arthur considered, suddenly remembering the night with such _clarity. _He thought back to the story, how Nimueh didn't take Emrys' life, but a loved one's instead. _Maybe Merlin had given his life for mine, but the witch took Gaius' life instead...? No, Gaius would have been the person to go to the isle himself so Merlin wouldn't have to make the second trip to give his life once more._

Gaius was alive the next morning, and so was Merlin—late to wake him up, but alive. Arthur scowled, and rubbed his temples with more pressure, feeling a headache forming. This… this _magic _thing was too complicated, and he wasn't _completely _sure that Merlin would have done something like that, no matter how likely it may be. Consorting with sorcerers was against the law, saving the prince's life or not. Connecting these kinds of things was stressing him out more than it was worth.

"_Arthur." _Arthur was startled out of his thoughts, and gave Lancelot an odd look, being addressed by his given name from the now-older knight for the first time since he had arrived in Essetir.

"Forgive me for being so informal, sire, but you weren't responding. You seem to be more thoughtful than the Lady Morgana gave you credit for," Lancelot smiled, and elbowed Arthur almost playfully, but caught himself afterwards, and mumbled an awkward, "Sorry, sire."

Arthur smiled reassuringly at the knight, pleased by Lancelot's sudden comfort around him. "It's no problem at all; but, did you need to tell me something?"

Lancelot nodded, and looked up to the watch towers near the main drawbridge to the encampment. "Percival says the druids have spotted three horses coming from the direction of the castle; one of the riders is clad in red. It's very likely they're your escorts," the dark-haired knight told Arthur.

Arthur frowned, "I didn't hear the druids say a thing," he said, looking at Percival, who gave a sly smile, and tapped his cranium.

Lancelot shrugged, "The druids have a form of communication that non-magical people, like us, don't have," Lancelot explained. Arthur nodded slowly, though he wasn't sure if he actually understood what the other man was explaining to him.

「Like this, Young Pendragon, 」Arthur jumped when he heard Iseldir's rustic voice inside of his head. He tried to turn towards where he heard the man speak, but he realised the man didn't _speak, _but had in fact spoken_ to_ him… in his own thoughts.

"You are to depart soon, Ser Lancelot," Arthur jumped once again as Iseldir's voice sounded beside him once more, but not in his head. Arthur looked to Iseldir, who gave him a quick quirk of the lips—was that a smirk?!—that Arthur didn't know the seemly stoic man was capable of producing. Arthur noticed Percival was laughing rather loudly near the bonfire, and he wondered if the almost-giant knight had seen and heard the exchange. Scratch that, the bulky knight had obviously held witness to the exchange—he was now producing snorting sounds.

Feeling heat rush to his cheeks in embarrassment, he looked around the camp once more. He noticed a multitude of druids slipping out of their tents and taking their places from the opening of the encampment to the bonfire in the middle of the camp with an isle the width of the encampment gates. Studying the cloaks of different colours, Arthur asked, "Are they doing a ritual of sorts?"

"We are simply going to see you off to the castle, young Pendragon," Iseldir informed him. "Your entourage arrives." As he said this, the drawbridge was raised, revealing Ser Leon mounted on a horse along with George who was holding the reins of three other horses.

Lancelot raised his hand in a salute-style greeting towards Ser Leon who easily returned his salute with a smile. Before Arthur could ask about the extra horse, as two of them were most obviously for himself and Lancelot, said knight looked towards Iseldir and inquired, "You said you had a young druid man who was to leave with us to receive tutoring from our prince?" Iseldir nodded and directed Lancelot to glance behind himself, where two figures were approaching. Arthur recognized them from the previous day when he first arrived at the encampment; he had seen them gathering water from the well.

"Captain," The blonde woman greeted respectfully as they came to a stop in front of Lancelot. The young woman walked beside the young man, once again clad in a teal cloak, her hand resting gently on the druid's lower back. The man's face indicated he was slightly exasperated at his mother's clingy behaviour, but there was an obvious affectionate glint in his eyes.

Lancelot turned, regarding the woman with a serene smile, "Yes, sera?"

_Captain—as in captain of the_ guard_? Lancelot was? _Arthur looked pensively to Lancelot, wondering if he was really that capable of a knight. He knew the man had potential—and a lot of it—but to be the captainof the guard? What else had traditional rules about '_only noble blood_' had made his kingdom miss out on potentially wonderful people that could just as easily serve?

"Please, _do_ remind my Mordred to be careful! He gets in trouble more oft than not..." The woman trailed off, nervously tucking strands of long blonde hair behind her ears as she spoke softly. "He hasn't been to the castle yet, he's only seventeen," the young mother said, worrying her lip. The young man flushed slightly at the last sentence while Lancelot shot him an apologetic and understanding smile.

_Mordred…_ now why did that sound familiar?

Memories began to rush through his head. He was running through underground tunnels that led away from the dungeons—so conveniently; they must have been made in secret during the Purge by people who held sympathy for those with magic who had also smuggled magic users out of the city—and to the outskirts of Camelot.

He remembered his worry that Merlin wouldn't arrive on time—that _stupid idiot_! Always late with everything, yet couldn't he, _just this once, _be early and save him from a heart attack? _If father asks, tell him I went on a hunting trip, _Arthur had said to Merlin who had helped the druid boy onto the horse. He had always done what his father had asked, but so recently he had started doubting his father's opinion on magic...

"_Wait, I don't even know your name! At least tell me your name," he had called to Mordred's and Iseldir's retreating forms after he had smuggled Mordred out of the castle._

"_My name is Mordred," the boy finally spoke, voice young and sure. _

"_Yeah? Then, good luck, Mordred," Arthur smiled, feeling like he had done something _right _regarding magic. _

_Ah! The young druid boy I helped out of the castle, that's why he looked so familiar before, because Morgana and Merlin had roped me into helping them smuggle the boy out of the castle... _his thought trailed off. Merlin; again he wondered why he had yet to run into Merlin, but he hadn't run into any other knight or peasant he knew from within the walls of Camelot besides Lancelot. He wasn't so sure the brief meeting of Percival really counted as him _knowing _the potential knight of Camelot—though here in this dream state where he found himself the built man _was _a knight, of Essetir, but a knight nonetheless. And soon he would meet Leon and his temporary servant, George. He suddenly felt sure that he would meet everyone else as soon as he arrived at the castle of the kingdom of Essetir. Looking back at Mordred once more, it was a wonder Arthur had recognised him at all. The once young boy had turned into a fine young man—a thought that puzzled Arthur further.

"I'm sure he will have no quarrel at all with mentoring your boy's magic. Do not worry, sera, as Emrys' kindness is as memorable, if not more so, than his wrath." The term, Arthur had learned, was the people's way of warning. 'You shouldn't do that; else Emrys will uncoil his wrath upon you.' Arthur scowled; he couldn't see how one man could be as revered and feared as a _god, _yet still be seen as the people's future king.

His own father had a lot going for him, as well: he was feared and out of that fear was borne respect. The people listened to him, but those people would just as well mean to stab him in the back, if given the chance to. Uther was not a kind and compassionate leader as he might have been before Ygraine had met her untimely death. The blonde prince shuddered to think of what kind of king he would be, given his father's example. Kill all with magic—that seemed to be the only consistent thing in Uther's life. Yet some of the magic users Arthur himself had seen and… exterminated had not looked evil, only frightened. It was no wonder magical people hated Uther. And what of the young Mordred he had to smuggle out of the kingdom himself? The little boy hadn't a single evil bone in his body let alone be an all-powerful evil ruler. 'Tis the way with druids: a peaceful folk.

Emrys was treated as a king by these people, but he was no more than a prince. No more than he, even if the other _did _have supposedly 'powerful' magic. This Emrys must have a dreadful ego to rival the one Arthur was accused of having, being made out to be some Druidic God by the druid clans around him. A pompous attitude, like all well-talked-about noblemen seemed to have, including Arthur, at one point. Had he not been taught humility by Merlin he still might be that way now. He supposed he was still arrogant; Merlin probably wouldn't be able to banter that trait out of him.

_Now meaning before I made the wish and was Crown Prince?_ He scratched his head, deep in thought. _In this 'now' I am not Crown Prince, nor am I even of age to be considered such. In this 'now' I am still considered nothing more than a royal prat,_ _if what Morgana told Lancelot is any indication. _

His lips split into a smile. The insult that he so loathed had turned into a—dare he say it?—friendly nickname that he had come to enjoy hearing from his manservant's ever-chatty lips. Looking upon the blonde woman who was speaking with Lancelot once more, he recognised her features as someone he had also met before, _Morgause. She seems less forbidding than when she had challenged me and sent me on that odd quest. She seems… at peace, almost._

Morgause smiled a sweet smile at Mordred, her expression showing none of the hatred she had borne for the Pendragons' during her life before he had made the wish to bring his mother back.

Arthur wondered if that was what the oppression of magic did. Turn people bitter. Was it the oppression of magic, or magic itself?

-x-

_All the names I used for the armour pieces I have looked up and done research on. If anyone knows something different about the placement and what not, please feel free to correct me! (:_

_Ohh, Darkspiral1! Right on the dot with that guess, but there _was_ magic involved. ;D You're a smart cookie! Or I'm just predicable, I'm hoping it's more of the former than the latter! Hahahh._

_As always, thank you so much for reviewing and following, you all are super awesome! Cheers! :D_


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